Dylan Moran
Before Dylan Moran even sauntered on to the stage for his first Wellington show in August, he’d already won the sell-out crowd over. But true to form, he didn’t rest on his laurels, delivering an ever-hilarious – albeit reasonably short - performance.
Further pleasing the audience after his rapturous entrance was his commentary on local matters; having gleaned from the news little more than the fact that "there's a game on". The Christchurch earthquake was briefly referenced, Moran saying he'd watched it from the UK in horror; and was now watching the UK in horror from down under as riots overtook the London streets. His commentary on modern English society went further, saying that where once the British Empire transported its criminals on boats overseas, it had now itself become a "permanently moored prison boat of the disaffected". Gags about Australians of course went over well, but Moran didn't take the easy path, instead playing up our indifference to Australians and their current events.
Most New Zealanders best know Moran from his work on Black Books, so it's natural to compare his stage persona to his screen character. And there are many parallels; the deadpan style, the love of wine, the disdain for many developments of the modern world; the slightly dishevelled appearance.
But Moran, though still incisive in his humour, is perhaps not quite as misanthropic as in past performances. What is most notable is his growing references to aging. At a mere 39, he's hardly over the hill, but his style has always suggested a man born to a time he doesn't quite feel at home in, and the quiet advancement of age only increases this. Thankfully, it never feels like someone wagging their finger and the kids of today, but instead highlights his own feeling of disconnection and disenchantment. A highlight was his dismissal of modern dancing with music that makes your "eyeballs foam within three seconds". While a bit of a cliché topic, his then-demonstration of '80s dance staples was brilliant; a rhythmic pointing at the ground termed "judging the mice". His take on modern art was also gold; explaining the difference between "good art" and "bad art": bad art is titled something such as "The Death of Love"; good art is honest and merely states what it is – "Skull with Whittaker's Peanut Slab in the Eyes". What truly makes Moran's comedy soar is his handle on language and connection with the mundane; he makes humdrum household objects into tools of comedy genius.
The first act of his performance was rattled off in a mere half hour; the second only slightly longer, but the audience was only left slightly wanting. Really, the only thing that was missing – apart from the cigarettes he once so lovingly struck up on stage – was a Christchurch show.
